


warmth

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-celibate Enjolras, Canon Era, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Morning After, Morning Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 19:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8813278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens
Summary: It occurs to Combeferre after a moment of pleasant languor that the blanket belongs to Enjolras, and a moment after that, he manages to remember why he is in a bed that isn’t his own.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【Translation】暖意（Warmth）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940858) by [SkyAndFields](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyAndFields/pseuds/SkyAndFields)



Combeferre wakes to the sound of splashing.

For a moment, before he comes to, he thinks of his visit to Bournemouth in the summer, waking to the sound of the sea near the cottage… but the noise is of water in a basin, not waves upon rocks. Unwilling to open his eyes, but knowing that it must be light outside, Combeferre rolls over in bed, pressing his face to the knitted and woollen blanket at his side. 

It occurs to him after a moment of pleasant languor that the blanket belongs to Enjolras, and a moment after that, he manages to remember why he is in a bed that isn’t his own.

And still the sound continues. 

Without retrieving his spectacles, and careful not to make any noise, Combeferre moves to his side enough to see beyond the bedpost.

A few paces away stands Enjolras, the haze of his gold hair most prominent even if Combeferre squints. No matter how many nights they have spent together in the past - and there were many, although none so eventful as what Combeferre is beginning to recall - Combeferre never tires of watching Enjolras carry out his graceful morning routine.

The order in which he dresses, the way he washes his face and (sometimes) combs his hair: all of this Combeferre finds fascinating to observe, even if in the past he has done so while he, too, was readying for the day, each of them fully clothed. Now, however, Enjolras is undressed, the silhouette of his back and legs plainly visible even without spectacles…  and Combeferre watches the motions from Enjolras’s own bed, unwilling to turn his eyes. Combeferre is drawn to watching the movement of his shoulders and the tilt of his head as he leans toward the basin in his washing, the slow bend of his back as he stretches his arms. 

A feeling of warmth floods Combeferre’s head and chest, and he lays there, breathing the familiar scent of the fabric, for still longer before stirring.

Eventually, the sounds of water cease, and Combeferre manages somehow to convince himself that he needn’t lie down forever. As Enjolras turns, he sits up fully, squinting.

Retrieving his spectacles from the shelf beside the bed brings him better clarity: Enjolras is now staring at him.

“You must have slept well,” he says, low in volume but light and deep in timbre, just as Combeferre greets him with, “good morning.”

The room is bathed in a pinkish light: the sun is still rising. Enjolras is dressed now in a nightshirt, one that Combeferre had not seen the night before. The fabric appears thick enough that it is warm, but it is also thin enough that Combeferre can see the outline of his collarbone and his chest beneath it; its placket is open in order that Combeferre needn’t look hard to notice a rosy mark near his sternum, conspicuous on his pale skin.

Considering this, Combeferre pulls the bed linens up to his own shoulders for modesty.

“I,” he says, unable to complete his thought, allowing (forcing) his gaze to wander from Enjolras’s torso to the familiar fixtures in his apartment: shelves of books old and new, a blotter on the desk, a rack which he has seen provide a home for seven hats at once…

“After the past week I suspect you required it, Combeferre, my friend. We have all worked hard - indeed, I only rose an hour ago myself.”

“I did sleep well, thank you,” he manages finally, not in easy reply, his own voice stilted to his ears. It is no lie: he slept very well, and even as he fights off the lingering drowsiness he knows he is well-rested. And as he gains more and more awareness, thoughts of the night return to him. 

If the pounding of his heart is any indication, his face is flushed; even with a slight morning chill, the warmth he felt moments ago won’t leave him.

_ Sharing a bed is nothing so unusual _ , he tells himself, recalling their evening. He remembers Enjolras’s charm and vivacity and sincerity as they reflected on their accomplishments, and the progress - and Enjolras himself had used the word, a sparkle in his blue eyes as Combeferre blushed - they knew was yet to come. The sober intensity with which Enjolras expressed his faith moving forward, the emboldened assent when Combeferre requested of him that...

“I have another nightshirt, if you wish for one,” Enjolras says, turning to replace his cloth in the washbasin and then back to look again directly at Combeferre.

Any nightshirt of Enjolras’s would be too long and slender for Combeferre to wear comfortably, and so he shakes his head slowly. He is at a loss for words until Enjolras crosses over to sit on the bed beside him, but has no chance to say what he thinks before Enjolras is pressing his palm to Combeferre’s cheek, and their lips are touching.

To kiss Enjolras, even after the night prior, is a foreign sensation. His caresses are intent, and whatever he lacks in experience - and surely he does - he compensates for with his gentle enthusiasm. Combeferre lets the sheets fall to his lap, baring his chest, and reciprocates with the same eagerness he had tried to suppress the evening before. When Enjolras opens his mouth, however, Combeferre cannot help but to pull away slightly: after removing again his spectacles, instead of continuing directly, he presses his lips to Enjolras’s cheek, then to his jaw, then to his temple, breathing against the skin, before Enjolras again takes initiative. 

The knowledge that this, specifically, is extraordinary does not for one second leave Combeferre’s mind; nevertheless, he fondly accepts the continuation. After a brief, physical search, Enjolras moves his hand to grip the covers above Combeferre’s thigh, his fingers imposing a comforting pressure as he ceases their kiss momentarily.

For as long as Combeferre has known him, Enjolras has been tactile with his affection, perhaps unusually so when coupled with his natural severity. The touch at his thigh, then, is no different than a touch at his shoulder or his wrist, and yet with their states of dress and Combeferre’s growing feeling of desire, it is profoundly special.

As their kiss becomes more heated, Combeferre reaches around Enjolras’s back and shoulders to pull him closer, and then to caress the nape of his neck.

Enjolras shudders.

Combeferre urges himself to remember this reaction for another time; meanwhile, he kisses Enjolras more intently, repositioning himself so that Enjolras may lean against him.

It is no small feat that he manages to maintain his focus, especially with Enjolras bracing himself by curving his arm around Combeferre’s hips, his fingers splaying against the small of Combeferre’s back.

When the touch increases in pressure, and his own breathing becomes heavy, Combeferre sets his hand upon Enjolras’s shoulder and pulls away. 

“Enjolras, is it -”

“Yes,” is his reply, spoken as a breath. Combeferre nearly stops, a moment’s uncertainty giving him pause, but one look from Enjolras confirms for him - in the way that only they two share - that they are in accord.

The warmth Combeferre has felt intermittently returns once more, now deeper, throughout his body.

After pulling his nightshirt about his head and setting it aside, Enjolras joins him beneath the linens, commencing again with a kiss.


End file.
